Chapter 5
Tom
When the last guest leaves, the restaurant changes character.
The noise drops away first. No more chairs scraping or cutlery chiming against plates. The dining room lights soften, no longer trying to sell anyone a fantasy. What’s left is the honest aftermath. Warmth. Steam. The quiet satisfaction of a service that did what it was meant to do.
Chloe has been everywhere all evening.
Not underfoot exactly. Observant. Curious. Asking the sort of questions that tell you someone actually understands systems rather than just outcomes. She tasted nearly everything, which was either commitment or recklessness. Possibly both.
Angela finishes wiping down her station and shrugs into her jacket. She glances over at me and Chloe, mouth twitching like she’s just spotted something she’ll be dining out on for weeks.
“You survived,” she says to Chloe.
“Define survived,” Chloe replies.
Angela laughs, then looks at me. “I’m heading off. Don’t forget I’m in late tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” I say.
She hesitates, eyes flicking between us, then smirks openly. “Nice meeting you, Chloe.”
“You too,” Chloe says.
The door closes behind her. The sound carries too far in the suddenly empty space.
I should tell Chloe to go. She’s had a long night. So have I. The sensible thing would be to say thank you and lock up.
Instead, I watch her reach for her coat and something in my chest tightens.
“You’re not done,” I say.
She pauses. “I’m fairly sure I am. I’ve eaten my way through your menu like the hungry caterpillar.”
I stack containers I’ve already stacked once, buying myself a second. “You missed the most important thing.”
She turns back, sceptical. “Oh.”
“Tiramisu.”
The word lands better than I expect. She looks curious.
“I didn’t see it on the menu,” she says.
“It’s not on tonight,” I reply. “I’m prepping for the weekend.”
She folds her arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a you problem.”
“You can’t write about the restaurant without tasting it.”
“I’m not reviewing dessert that hasn’t been finished.”
“You’re writing about the place,” I say. “That includes dessert. And this is one of my signature dishes.”
She studies me, weighing whether this is stubbornness or strategy. Possibly both.
“And you want me to help,” she says.
“I want you to see how it’s done.”
“Front-row seats, then.”
“Think of it as professional development,” I say.
She smiles like she’s already decided to stay.
I pull open the low fridge and take out a covered tray, setting it on the counter between us. “We make the savoiardi ourselves. Baked this morning. They need time to cool and dry properly.”
I lift the cloth briefly, then replace it. Pale. Light. Exactly right.
Reaching back into the fridge for a sealed container, I add, “Mascarpone cream’s stabilised. No egg yolks in mine. Health and safety matters.”
“I’d hate to poison Carlisle,” she says.
“So would I,” I reply. “Coffee’s strong and cooled. Hot coffee ruins the texture.”
She nods, actually listening. That does something inconvenient to me.
I slide a shallow dish of coffee towards her. “You soak.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a trusting soul.”
“I’ll supervise.”
She picks up a biscuit, dips it, lifts it out.
“That was too long,” I say.
“It was barely a second.”
“It absorbed.”
“That’s the point.”
“Not like that.”
She looks up at me, amused. “You’re very bossy for a man who is supposed to make me feel welcome in his kitchen.”
“Only way you listen to me.”
“Mm.”
I step closer, guiding with my voice rather than my hands. “In. Out. Like that.”
She follows the instruction. This time I nod. “Better.”
“High praise,” she murmurs.
“Don’t get used to it.”
We work side by side, layering carefully. Biscuit. Cream. Repeat. Our hands brush more often than necessary. Neither of us comments on it.
When the tray is finished I slide it into the fridge and close the door, grounding myself in the click of it. When I turn back, she’s closer than she was before.
“Thank you,” I say, quieter than intended.
“For what?”
“For staying.”
She looks at me like she’s deciding whether to make a joke or take the moment seriously. Before she can do either, my eyes catch on something small and entirely unfair.
“You’ve got cream on your mouth,” I say.
Her hand flies up instantly. “No I don’t.”
“You do,” I say. “Right there. Corner.”
She checks again, slower this time, suspicious. “You’re lying.”
“I am not lying,” I reply. “You have mascarpone on your face.”
She narrows her eyes. “I did not sneak a taste.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You absolutely implied it.”
“I observed evidence,” I say. “That looks very much like theft.”
She scoffs. “You told me I needed to taste the tiramisu.”
“I told you you’d taste it,” I correct. “Not the components.”
“That feels like a technicality.”
“It is an important one.”
She folds her arms. “You’re moving the goalposts.”
“I’m maintaining standards.”
She tilts her head, challenging. “So what you’re saying is that if I’m going to try it, I have to try it properly.”
“Yes.”
“Fully.”
“Yes.”
“Under supervision.”
“Very much so.”
Her mouth twitches. “This feels very much like bear poking.”
“I’m enforcing culinary integrity.”
She laughs softly and my focus promptly goes on holiday.
“Fine,” she says. “Show me how you’d want it tasted.”
I reach for a biscuit. Dip it into the coffee. Lift it out at exactly the right moment. Then I scoop mascarpone on top, smooth and deliberate, my hands moving on instinct.
I hold it out to her.
She looks at it. Then at me. “You’re not serious.”
“Open your mouth,” I say.
There is that low voice again. But rougher this time. It surprises both of us.
Her breath catches. Just slightly. “Bossy boots.”
“Only when it matters.”
She hesitates for half a second longer, then leans in and opens her mouth.
I feed her. She takes the biscuit slowly, lips brushing my finger as she pulls away, a soft, unmissable touch. It is nothing. It feels like everything. My pulse reaches dangerous levels.
I watch her face with an intensity I make no effort to hide.
She makes a sound. Soft. Unguarded. Not loud, not theatrical. Just a low, involuntary hum that goes straight through me like a live wire.
My body reacts before my brain has a chance to intervene. Heat. Tension. A sharp, immediate awareness of her that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with proximity. And my cock thinks it might be time to play… and it definitely is not. Or is it?
I step closer without deciding to.
“You’ve got cream again,” I murmur. My voice comes out deeper, rougher than it has any right to be.
She freezes. “I do not.”
“You do,” I say quietly. “Corner of your mouth.”
“Oh.” She lifts her hand, misses it entirely. “Where?”
“Let me,” I say.
I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb, the movement slow, deliberate. Her skin is warm. Softer than I expect. The kitchen feels very small all of a sudden.
My thumb is streaked white.
I do not think about it. I bring it to my mouth and suck the cream off, eyes never leaving hers.
Her gaze drops to my lips.
Something shifts. Noticeably. Inevitable.
“That’s unfair,” she breathes.
She steps in, hand fisting in the front of my jacket, pulling me down just enough.
And then she kisses me.
Not tentative. Not testing. Full and certain and heat-soaked, like the decision has already been made and she’s simply catching up to it.
Her mouth is warm, insistent, tasting faintly of coffee and sugar and something that is suddenly everywhere.
Her. The press of her tits against my chest. The way her tongue slides against mine, bold and demanding.
My hands find her waist on instinct, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the thin fabric of her T-shirt and apron, and she makes this little sound, half moan, half growl, that goes straight down my spine.
For a split second, I register the absurdity of it. The empty kitchen. The refrigeration humming softly. The tray of tiramisu setting quietly in the fridge, already forgotten. The thought should stop me. Should make me pull back.
It doesn’t.
Instead, my hand slides up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the cotton, feeling the weight of it, the heat of her.
She arches into the touch, her nipple hardening under my palm even through the fabric, and I groan into her mouth, my body reacting hard and fast, my cock pulsing and desperate.
The counter digs into my hips as she pushes me back.
I slide my hand between her legs and can feel the heat of her cunt through her yoga pants like a brand.
I break the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead dropping to hers, our lips still brushing. The kitchen is too quiet except for the sound of her breathing, ragged and unguarded, her chest rising and falling against mine.
“This,” I say low and steady, “is a terrible idea.”
She smiles, breathless, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously like victory. “Disastrous.”
I kiss her again.
This time it’s messy. Teeth knocking. Tongues tangling.
Her hands fumbling at the front of my jacket while I tug the apron knot loose and push it aside, then hook my fingers under the hem of her T-shirt and drag it up.
She lifts her arms without hesitation, letting me pull it off, revealing the black lace bra underneath, her tits spilling full and heavy from the cups.
I push down the fabric, her nipples dark and already pebbled greet me.
I palm one, rolling the stiff peak between my fingers, and she gasps, her head falling back as I duck down to take it into my mouth.
“Fuck—” Her fingers tighten in my hair, holding me there as I suck hard, my tongue circling her nipple before I bite just enough to make her whimper.
The taste of her skin is salt and warmth.
My free hand slides down her stomach, over the generous curve of her hips, and I push her yoga pants down in one sharp pull, letting them fall to the floor around her ankles.